


Regretful ashes

by Directed_Director



Series: Three Spotify songs and DreamNotNap angst. [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Dream Team (Video Blogging RPF), Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, As the World Caves In - Matt Maltese, Beta reading? Never heard of it., Clay | Dream-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Dream Smp, Everyone is Dead, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, I have regrets, Implied Relationships, M/M, Manberg Festival on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Past Relationship(s), Songfic, Suicide, The author is incredibly late
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28149012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Directed_Director/pseuds/Directed_Director
Summary: Dust with smoke, fresh and black. The aroma of the assumed deceased overpowered by ashes, soot, and remnants of explosives. Once brilliant green eyes turned dull, duller than the clouds that mock the day's event, that mock the dead that arrived in it.Whether it was the scattered particles of debris that tickle his irises or the overwhelming anger and denial that prickle his every thought, which had caused the glassy appearances of his eyes? He couldn't be bothered to know, couldn't be bothered to notice.He wanted to scream, to scream until his lungs give out and the heavens shout back with reason, reason as to why he's the only one standing in a valley of corpses, reason as to why he lost the two people that only ever mattered, reason-- Reason, no, excuses, he desperately searched for excuses.The skies responded with somber tears, droplets raging and amassing as seconds turned to what felt like long hours. Once a proud man with a country in his grasp, now broken.A time where karma had finally caught up with Dream.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound/Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound/Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: Three Spotify songs and DreamNotNap angst. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2066589
Comments: 6
Kudos: 64





	Regretful ashes

**Author's Note:**

> * * *
> 
> **_~-..My feet are aching_ **  
>  **_And your back is pretty tired_ **  
>  **_And we've drunk a couple bottles, babe_ **  
>  **_And set our grief aside~-.._ **
> 
> * * *

_“Dream-.. let me be your vassal.” A former president spoke with conviction to his once declared enemy. They stood in a haunting forest, creatures of both night and day scurry as the sun began to resign, night growing near and humoring the idea of mobs surrounding them. They were too busy to pay mind._

_“Dream, I understand that you have a lot of,-~” His voice wavers slightly in his rush to get out the words he wanted to dislodge out of his throat, a small pause as intimidating eyes exchanged with abyssal dots of the porcelain mask, “~-.. TNT.” If his smirk wasn't maniacal before, surely it was now._

_“A lot of the ol' trinitrotoluene in your possession,” he continued, the grin almost growing twice as large as the man within the mask titled his head, interested._

_“I do,” the other responded blankly, his tone almost disinterested in a way to mock and challenge the broken man with his pride, his neck snapping back to its original position as he regained proper posture, his shoulders relaxing in condescending way._

_Silence, not deafening, but buzzing. Silence as the exchange between two mad men became a Mexican standoff, with spiteful glares used as their weapons._

* * *

**_~-..‘he Papers say it's doomsday_ ,**   
**_The button has been pressed~-.._ **

* * *

Leather books with small tints of enchanting hues were stacked beside him, an author's mark present on the front. “This is a pain,” he murmurs to himself, and in fairness, he wasn't lying. Boredom seeped into the atmosphere, a hand maneuvering the pen and tapping the table with rhythm. 

His head tilted as he continued to shoot a weary glare at one of the pages, it laid on the wooden table. A hand pressed against his forehead as a sense of frustration ate away at him. He expressed impatience, a feet tapping lightly at oak floors of the command room.

A slight migraine developed as he decided to weigh his options; procrastinate and ~~_dump the responsibility_~~ ask for George's help later on or spend the whole afternoon occupied in the cobble-cladded room, his lips pursed as he lets out a small sigh.

He sat up from his chair as his feet began to press against the flooring, having decided to tidy up before he continues tomorrow. He finishes documenting his recent deal, written with half-assed lettering and thick squid ink. The title in bold and plastered on the leather cover; ‘ _The Button._ ’

He turned his heel, the iron door closing behind him after he exited with a stone pressure plate. “George!” he shouted, expecting a reply. “Sapnap?” he spoke in a lower volume, but still loud enough for echoes to reach across the tower's whole layout. An eerie silence responded, no trace of any life as he personally searched through the corridors.

“Alright, very funny guys.” Irritation obvious in his tone as his mouth twitched, he lets out a frustrated groan after no response. His thoughts dwelled in slight worry and wonder. He lets out a small hum, a melody accompanied with audible flickers of torches that were settled on the walls, brushing off his concern.

He arrived near the staircase that led to the top of the tower, his feet now taking the time to trudge on each individual platform step-by-step. He stood at the top and was greeted with fresh winds, the timid and eerie atmosphere of the insides of his towers, now forgotten. He came closer to the edge, opting to sit and dangle his legs. He took off his mask as his bare face was met with the crisped like breeze.

He traced a finger along the cracks and crevices of the porcelain mask, fiddling with it mindlessly. Sharp eyes spectated intently at the bustling country a few miles away, trees tower and blocked portions of his view. It felt surreal, how everything is about to collapse just how he intended it, like dominos meticulously dropping without even a flick of a finger.

But there was a churning in his stomach, an unruly nauseating striking in his gut. A sour taste in his tongue that darted anxiously. The lazily plastered frown of disinterest suddenly shifted, his teeth bare with sudden overwhelming anxiety. The mask he clutched with his right hand was yanked upwards and plastered itself on his face, making quick work as he tied the dangling straps around his head securely.

He stood immediately, his legs unsteady, similar to vertigo being fed and fueled by the growing worry in the pits of his stomach. He feels his whole world about to crumble, to be destroyed in a matter of hours. “Fuck.” He murmurs, how could he have forgotten? 

_“How-- why did you get invited to Schlatt's festival?”_ One line, one line that gave him more dread than ever in his his life, more dread than when he sought out to kill the Ender dragon, more dread than when he found out how close he was to beating the former leader of the Antarctic Empire.

_“Well, we already have work there so, it all works out!”_ He felt a tremble. They say that realization was an abrupt piercing pain, an arrow lodged in your shoulders as adrenaline dies down. He's experienced that type of pain beforehand, he can't help but growl and the inaccuracy.

What did it feel like? It was an earthquake, a convulsing in the ground that made you alert-- but you can only stand in disbelief and shock. While the shelves collapse and the floor opens wide to what looks like the depths of hell, you can only stand.

But he had to move, he needed to move. He threw himself off the tower as he reached for his back with both hands, his whole body starting to rile up with adrenaline. Two axes' oak handles gripped as he pulled them from their holsters underneath his lime green poncho. 

Composure diminishing by the minute and with judgement foggier than the growing thunder clouds above, the rising fear and worry in the pits of his stomach doing no favors. He descended quickly as his heel pointed downwards, his axes pulled up high above his head as they readied to strike a tree for leverage. 

Falling through the foliage and accidently colliding with branches, heart practically beating out of his chest in his own hurry. He brought both axes down and struck two trees that were only a few feet apart from one another, a perfect place for him to catch his fall.

The heads of both the netherite axes descended quickly on bark as he fell through the leaves, twin axes scaring the respective trees they struck as it revealed the brighter innards, an almost clean crack opened as they remained lodged in wood, if it weren't for the splinters that protruded slightly.

He left them without a second thought, stuck in the trees as he leapt from that position to go on ground. His mind racing--.. ‘ _Why didn't I see this?_ ’ _\--_ ‘ _Why didn't I remember?_ ’ His forgetfulness be damned, he cringes as guilt began to drip into his conscience.

Breathing slowly turning labored as he began to assume the worst. His pace gaining momentum with every step, with every dreadful thought, with every _nostalgic memory_ , and the threat of not being able to make new ones.

* * *

_“~-.. King's time as ruler rises and falls like the sun,” He shoots a genuine smile as his eyes gazed from the walls of L'manberg to the older man, pride and expectations for his friend, ‘friend..’_

_Goggles with near opaque lenses rested on the brunet's fluffy hair, heterochronic blue-brown eyes staring intently at the distance, sunlight beaming at the perfect angle, yellow hues lighting his face as some reflected off the goggles that settled on his head. A face too angelic._

_He was glad he took off his mask._

_A lump in his throat arose, he swallowed words that he couldn't afford to be heard. ‘You're beautiful.’_

_“One day, George,” he huffs out as he snapped himself back to reality, soft emerald eyes continued to stare intently at the Lieutenant, at his 1st Lieutenant._

_The other's attention caught as eyes exchanged glances, glances turning to intimate eye-gazing. “'Mm?” George hums in slight bemusement, waiting for the other to continue._

_“The sun will set on my time here, and will rise with you,” His head cocked slightly as his smile grew more, his head turned to face the other, a gentle fondness glimmered in such an intimate moment._

_“As the new king. My king.” The brunet's eyes widened, the teasing smirk dropping in shock. “You idiot,” he chuckled slightly as he sent a light punch at the younger's shoulders, his cheeks dusty pink, obvious as it contrasted with his usual pale skin._

_He lets out a wheeze as the knuckles softly connected with his right shoulder, feigning hurt as he side-stepped subtly to imitate himself getting off-balanced. “Come on now, Gogy.”_

_“But seriously though,” he said in a more stern tone, but the slightly higher pitched teasing voice still dwelled in his throat, “if I ever, you know, die or something--..”_

_“You won't,” George interrupted with sureness in his voice and words, both eyes now slightly tinted with worrisome confidence as he peered at the other's irises._

_A hand clasped on his in a quick yet gentle manner, his brows quirking in confusion before he stared down at his side, a pale hand intertwined with his slightly tanned right one. He failed to hide a giddy grin, freckling dots standing out against growing pink cheeks._

_He shimmied the mask that was hanging at the left side of his face._

_He lifted his head to stare at the other, “You won't,” the brunet repeated with as much if not more certainty than before._

* * *

“They won't-..” he mused and chanted to himself repeatedly, legs becoming more sore by the minute, only driven by determined fear.

‘ _But what if_ _they-_..’ A cruel thought crept in his mind. They say that ignorance was bliss, that context and knowing was a cruse, he was starting to believe that. The internal conflict continuing to grow inside his head as he struggled to concentrate. Worry was too overwhelming for his own liking.

Conscious of time, sun light near gone, he assumed it fleeted over the mountains of his land. He began to shed his enchanted netherite armor, taking off the heavy purple-dark armor-plate by armor-plate. He shuffled his shoulders after untying the leather straps that held his torso piece on his upper body.

He's left with plating on his lower body, untying the another strap that held a plate on his thigh, not bothering to take off the armor plating that were securely placed on his calves and the dark metal that clung on his feet, he can't afford to stop and take them off.

Metal clatters against grass and dirt. He simultaneously ran without any intention on losing momentum while he unbuckled the straps that wrapped around his body to hold heavy netherite plating, but he still felt heavy. He thinks that no metal could ever be as heavy as the growing unease in his chest; It felt like anvils.

Cumulonimbus clouds that've been occupying the high skies shrouded the bright sun's rays, his eyes squinted to try and accommodate to the coming darkness, but the loaming trees ensured barely any light passes through the foliage. It was dark, too dark. 

He trips, _he felt like he was falling--_ and well, he was. The sensation was different, a foreign yet familiar feeling he hadn't noticed, he hadn't grasped or felt in years; Desperation. _He felt like he was falling_ , falling in a deep-deep ditch that swallowed him whole, that slowly made light-- made hope so much more miniscule as he fell.

He braced himself as he rose his arms, crossing them to protect his face and mask as he tripped. **Thud.** He groans in displeasure and slight pain, the skin that harshly skidded on the rough dirt exposed a few layers underneath the epidermis, blood clotting subtly. Adrenaline acted as his anesthetic. 

He was a man of many faces and words, a man renowned for being a contradicting oxymoron. He was blunt but sharp, charismatically intimidating, impulsive yet calculative, but those were familiar façades he clung onto, and no façade, no mask can hide the raw emotion in his voice.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he shouted as he grew more and more desperate, he tried to clamber on his feet as he pushed against the ground, using his elbows for leverage--.. “~-.. _Fuck!_ ” the forest shouted back, the forest echoed, the forest responded with a mock, mocking him with his own words, “-~-.. _Fuck!_ ”

Every breath became more labored as he became more restless, his movements impulsive but stiff in a way that showed an unnervingly terrifying amount of recklessness. He stood on unstable footing, his hands using a tree for support. He couldn't help but choke out a small sob, a sob that dared to finally break him.

A sob he couldn't afford to grow and overwhelm him, just like the time he couldn't afford to waste. With uneasy deep breaths, he felt the exposed skin with his hands, blood and dirt subtly mixed in the irritated area of his arm, his breathing hitched slightly.

The wind whistled an unsettling melody, a touching melancholic harmony that carried the tunes of blissfulness. It left bitter and sour thoughts, how dare the world mock him? How dare they try and taunt? He resumed his pace, gaining momentum with every second. Soon he ran faster than what his sore muscles could handle as they burned his calves with irritating pain.

Morale was lower than the depths of the hole he felt he fell through earlier, _he still feels like he's falling._ His breathing stressed and heavily labored as he continued on his way. The porcelain mask he wore was slightly scratched with dry dirt that decorated the small crevices, he felt his own hot breaths because of the damned thing.

But he decided to cling onto it for dear life, a metaphorical lifeline was established as he acknowledged its importance. It was the only sense of familiarity that's keeping him stable, that's keeping him from _finally breaking_. A mask to hide his own emotions from others, and to hide wretched realities from himself.

Bright small circular spots on the ground, it was subtly illuminated-- light that shimmered slightly beyond the small holes of leaves, beyond the massive dull grey clouds above. It decorated the area as he continued to pace forward with momentum. A shimmer of relief, a fate that can be bent.

The tunnel and road that led to Manberg just beyond the foliage, just beyond the trees that tower colossally against even the stadium which hung from a cliffside. Sweat gathering in his mask as dejected thoughts mixed in with slivers of hope that danced in his head. 

Light, he could see clearly again, a sense of hope he clung onto as he leapt forward, his heel pushing against wooden planks that swiveled and zigzagged. His pace barely changed as he continued on his way, his mask hiding the worry and relief that had tensed his facial features. 

He continued to race against potential fate, his hands raising to try and wipe the sweat that gathered on his forehead, only to feel the cooled frigid porcelain mask's texture. The wind that had strummed that eerie tune slowly died down in his ear.

He can see them, can see Sapnap adorned with shining enchanted netherite armor, his hands preoccupied with a flint & steel as he sparked it for his own amusement, acting as guards with the members of Badlands-- can see George's figure stand tensely beside Schlatt, Quackity and Techno as his back faced the crowd and stared at where Schlatt's throne was, the brunet's hair slicked and jelled-- he can save them, he has time-~... 

* * *

_“Why!” the arsonist shouted hoarsely, his throat irritated from the past few minutes of him screaming at his porcelain masked friend._

_He wrapped another bandage on Sapnap's calf._

_The other didn't know whether to squirm out of spite and lack of anesthetic, or stay put and let the treatment finish before he goes at Dream. He compromises, “Fucking hell Dream, why!” he shouted with mixed malice and betrayal, brown eyes peering at the cold dead mask._

_Dead, like the frigid coldness of the night. The noiret lets out a heavy exhale, hot breath contrasting with the icy atmosphere, wavering slightly as he felt pressure on the wound that was being bandaged. He reached out with a hand to firmly grab the blond's wrist. Both flinched under different reasons._

_“Dream,” he spoke with a somber clarity in his voice, “why?” Brows furrowed as he spoke, determined to find a reason for his friend's recent betrayal. “You gave away Mars for fuck's sakes!” Slivers of frustration leaked through his words as he demanded questions._

_He couldn't bare to look at the other eye-to-eye when the arsonist is so spited, spited because of him._

_He was glad he was wearing his mask._

_Silence, uncomfortable unnerving silence. The noiret released his grip on the other's wrist, wincing as he stood up, using the trees near him as support as he limped to the opposite side of the unlit campfire._

_He didn't bother to help, he knew his efforts would be denied with a snarl._

_As the noiret sat himself opposite to the other, he pulled out his trusty flint 'nd steel, sparking a flame that offered another source of light besides the gentle moonlight. Umber eyes fixated on embers._

_It was almost enchanting, how the moon's subtle luster from above contrasted with the concentrated yellow-red hues of a tamed fire that brought out the smallest details of his face, brows furrowed with mixed frustration and confusion, his lower lip protruding slightly in a pout. A face too angelic._

_A lump in his throat arose, he swallowed words that he couldn't afford to be heard. ‘You're beautiful.’_

_“I'm sorry,” he croaks out as he contributes an effort to cut through the silence. The arsonist took the time to assess the porcelain for any hints of emotion; for any hints of the blond's emotion._

_He complies with the silent demand as he placed both hands on the mask, pressing against it before he readied to move it._

_He shimmied the mask until it was hanging at the left side of his face._

_It was finally warm, gentle emerald eyes met unreadable but soft brown irises. Both mouths twitched before exchanging somber smiles, melancholic in a way._

_No further apologies were said, no acceptance or denial was given, no words were spurred, just warm familiar and comfortable eye-gazing._

_Silence, warm, comfortable, familiar silence._

* * *

_**-~-..‘re gonna nuke each other up boys** _   
**_'Til old satan stands impressed~-.._ **

* * *

“Techno, I need you to--.. Technoblade.” The speakers boomed and echoed as Schlatt spoke, the mic only a few inches from the alcoholic's mouth as his back was turned from the crowd. A growing fury evident as his tone was strained, a temper kept under until it explodes, an active volcano that readied to erupt at any second.

Relief, he can feel a wave of relief. _He isn't too late_. He wanted to sneak an optimistic grin, but worry still darted in his chest, not too heavy like before, but still constant and determined to break him. He bends to reach his feet, shuffling and grabbing a small iron knife that was sneakily hidden underneath the sole of his boot. It pays to be prepared. 

Eyes assessed and surveyed again. He noticed George slightly shifting in his suit, it was terribly obvious how uncomfortable-- no, how obvious he hated the situation he was in, from wearing the damned tuxedo to working closely with Schlatt for so long. He made a mental note to apologize to him after he saves their asses.

He couldn't catch a glimpse of the smaller figure inside bright yellow concrete because of the massive crimson royal cape, the Blade's signature pink braided hair hanging slightly. He couldn't see or distinguish, but as Schlatt ever so not-so-kindly shouted the person's name repeatedly, he didn't need to guess who was in the box. “Can't believe this, my right hand man!” The speaker erupted again with another shout.

His eyes darted on the crowd, people tensely sitting while others stood up and attempted to protest. “~-..n't listen to him!” He could vaguely hear Niki shout at the political personnels up in the podium, but he was more confident that it was directed at Technoblade.

A mouth flatlined as brows furrowed in slight worrisome anticipation underneath the porcelain mask. He couldn't afford to slip up, he knew that. “If I grab Sapnap near the entrance and--..” he muttered to himself, his eyes fluctuating between the two people he adored, “George could maybe-~…” His eyes rose up to the podium, but-..

But he saw him, across a separate building. A man who's fallen into the depths of insanity, a leader who's lost what he had hold oh so dearly, a man who projected-- _mirrored_ a future for him. Circular glasses with broken lenses? He couldn't see from this distance. Glances shared, a smile creeping slowly as Wilbur tilted his head mockingly.

That moment, dread caught up to him. He felt like he was up on the tower again, staring helplessly from afar as his friends-- the two people he held so close, were about to explode. It almost broke him, he couldn't help but find it idiotic, how one mishap and everything suddenly fell. He was supposed to be the puppeteer, right? He was supposed to make the world better for him--.. no, them.

He didn't have the time to mourn the death of his trust on self's reliability. Frankly he didn't really want to mourn anyone's death today.

“ _~-..'ou're going to~-.. 'm._ ” It was loud, too loud, but the world around him seemed so silent. Shouts from the crowd and the booming echoes of speakers were all irritating white noise, “-~-.. _'re going to~--.. 'm right n~--..._ ” It was now so silent, too silent, but as both mad men exchanged glares like the week before, it felt like a thousand dynamites fulminated.

It felt like thousands of dynamites _were_ about to be fulminated. Hand shifting involuntarily, he needed to grab something, needed to grasp something so he can remain anchored to reality, to focus his fullest attention on stopping this damned man, he needed--..

“ _~-..'n this fucking sta'-~-... 'd make it h~-.._ ” They began to play a petty game of cat and mice. “ _~-~...'n't listen to h'-..._ ” 

**Bang**. Tommy had teleported from the rooftop the duo had previously stationed themselves on, too distracted from the speech and the impending demise his friend was inching towards, to notice the silence of his former President. The signature purple particles associated with enderpearls left his place. The circumstances were almost _too_ perfect.

The gloomy sky was littered and dotted with spectacular brightness of red-blue-white, literal fireworks zooming up high and digging down low, as if to celebrate the new deaths brought on by the Blood God's hands. He swore he noticed a maniacal laugh above the growing screams from below. But he was too focused to care, too worried to care.

They stood there, it felt familiar, it felt like déjà vu. Silence, deafening silence that managed to become louder than the booming speakers. Silence as the exchange between two mad men became a Mexican standoff, with spiteful glares used as their weapons. It felt too familiar, it felt too much like déjà vu. **Bang**. 

He rushed down the hill, almost skidding against grass as his eyes fixated and followed Wilbur. The man from above jumping off and using the panic that erupted from below to cover his trail, this was infuriating. He shuffled through the crowds, the men with netherite armor that were previously guarding began to go through crowd control-- this included Sapnap, but he didn't notice.

“~-..' _ream!?~-.._ ” He couldn't notice.

He leapt over chairs and crates as he continued tail on Wilbur, a brief memory flashing as he recalled the location of the ‘ _Button room_.’ Ringing in his ears continued, mixture of buzzing white noise and incoherent shouts that managed to get through to him, it wasn't loud-- it was the exact opposite, it made things so much more quiet. “ _~-..'bow down-~-.. blade!_ ” **Bang**.

It was almost beautiful in a morbid way, the skies were truly a sight to see with colors flashing almost every second, not that he would bother to notice--.. he had a mad man to stop, but he can't help and ponder. It reminds him of years ago on special occasions, before these damned wars.

**Bang**. Another lethal firework, ironic that an item intended to commemorate occasions, new found revelations even, was being used to mark almost everyone's grave. The lime green hood that was connected to his poncho dropped, revealing dirty blonde hair that contrasted with white and dirtied green, crimson with dried brown as he breezed path wounded and dead.

A mental map engrained itself in his mind, continuing to shuffle through the bodies of both the current living and the incredibly injured. It smelled putrid, it smelled like anarchy, it smelled too familiar. As he shimmied through the last of the crowds, he saw him. **Bang**. 

He caught a small glimpse of the end of a brown trench coat before it went through a corner, escaping his vision. **Bang**. He skidded against the cobblestone, almost touching the glass that held water underneath for decorative purposes. He recovered quickly as he maintained momentum, continuing to pursue the other.

**Bang**.

* * *

**_-~-..‘nd here it is, our final night alive,_**   
**_And as the earth runs to the ground-~.._ **

* * *

It was oddly cold. Cobblestone walls with ingrained obsidian veins, a strange but very effective insulator for the makeshift bomb shelter that had only taken a few days to build. He stood only a few feet away from the deranged man, but then again it can be argued that both of them are-.. **Bang**.

Fireworks continued to erupt from the outside, anguished and tortured screams barely audible underneath the cliffside. It was quiet, almost peaceful in a way, like sleeping indoors as new years eve erupted from outside, fireworks commemorating the occasion followed by joyous and excited screams. 

An iron knife hid itself under his palm as it faced away from the other's view, the flat side of the blade laying comfortably, avoiding potential self-inflicting damage. It felt all too familiar again, as if he-.. they were reenacting a memory, a memory from last week, a memory just a few minutes ago.

Silence, melancholic, loud and quite, he couldn't pin point what it really felt like now. He felt somewhat numb as he readied to take a life, maybe he felt numb as he prepared for lives to be taken from him, he didn't know. Silence, silence as the exchange between two mad men became a Mexican standoff, with pitied glares used as their weapons.

It felt like they were in a field, it felt too familiar. He found it funny how déjà vu started to feel very repetitive-- it felt like he had his back faced against his enemy, an arrow readied in his bow as he prepared to be injured as a child no older than 16, for a whole rebelling region's independence, by a mad man with a mask.

Was this what it felt like? Is he experiencing the same hopelessness in this situation the other had felt? The same feeling he had brought down to the people of L'manberg, Manberg and Pogtopia? Was Karma truly going to bite his ass with the pilled up consequences? Justice and retribution was truly a bitch.

He felt indifferent, unconcerned and-- numb. Maybe he expected this all along, for fate's hand to suddenly whack him right across his face for his own wrong doings. For fate's hands to repay the people he had wronged by giving him anguish, anguish by taking the people he cared about.

But all those people, those who he fought off and fought with, won't have much time to mull over their positions, won't they.

They say that being struck by realization was like an earthquake, a convulsing in the ground that made you alert-- but you can only stand in disbelief and shock. While the shelves collapse and the floor opens wide to what looks like the depths of hell, you can only stand. 

But god, did the aftershock always make the earthquake feel so miniscule. This was an aftershock, a sudden second wave of realization-- a first wave of melancholic and somber acceptance. As the shelves shimmy on the ground and what remains of the tiles crack and shatter beside the opening of hell, you can only stand in indifference. 

Truly, he wasn't a man who ever gave up, his stubbornness and perseverance is what made him a formidable opponent, besides his wits, agility and combat prowess. But he felt the world already collapsing around him, collapsing as he held no power to stop it.

He was supposed to be the puppeteer, right? He was supposed to make the world better for them, right?

“Glad you can make it, _Dream_ , ” It sounded venomous, it sounded spiteful but--.. deranged men never abided by tone indicators and societally accepted word phrasing, “Here I thought you'll watch this whole fucking country explode up in your _little_ tower,

like a coward.” 

Fingerless-gloved hands hovered-- no, touched and felt the texture of the wooden button, it was ingrained inside the cobblestone walls. Redstone dust scattered on the cold stoney ground, the dusty red particles glinted with what little light the room had.

“What? Did you seriously fucking follow me all the way here to _watch_ me detonate this damned place?” He can see that his lenses were cracked, mirroring its broken owner. “Talk for fuck's sake!” Wilbur's hand that delicately caressed the button suddenly slammed the stone wall, inches from the button beneath it.

He flinched, the other's hand too close to hitting that button for his own liking. Silence only grew more unnerving as both didn't dare take their eyes of each other, anticipating something-.. _anything_. His breath wavers as he attempted to dislodge the words he wanted out of his throat, “Wilbur, I'm calling off the deal.”

As if the frown plastered on the disheveled man could deepen, well-- it did. Unamused and disappointed as his brows began to furrow. “Excuse me?” An indignant scoff followed after, the British accent deepening and more apparent in his words as his teeth went bare, angered, provoked, pissed.

“You think you can fucking call off this? The TNT's been planted, _Dream_. The chaos already erupted, _Dream_ , ” the man practically _hissed_. The hand that was previously clenched went down to mockingly skim and fondle the wooden button, humoring the fact that any movements-- any suspicious motion, will end in ignition.

Then again, it'll all end in ignition either way, won't it?

“There is literally, nothing,--” he emphasized with a quiet maintained shout that could only be heard inside the room, but loud enough for it to echo, ring and linger in his ears, “nothing, stopping me from blowing this shitfest up.” His hand dangerously dragged and sent a small pressure on the button, pushing it half-way, but not enough for it to fully activate. It was infuriating. 

One step. His right feet rose and pressed against the ground immediately as he saw the button with pressure, sweat gathering underneath the tight and secured mask, it was uncomfortable. “Wilbur-~..” His voice sounded small, too small “Wilbur,” he said and repeated more firmly.

“Get your hands off the button.” His façade taking over his front, he sounded disinterested, he sounded as if this was an inconvenience--.. ‘ _sounded_.’ Another step, another echo, another _dare_ for the other. It was all unnerving, it was all too quiet but too loud, “Now.”

Deranged but calculative eyes assessed the other, brows continuing to furrow before it relaxed completely, the frown that tensed his facial features suddenly shifting to a shit eating grin, maniacal laughter ensues. The room, despite losing the unnerving silence, was now so much more disconcerting, “Can't believe it!” The man said in-between a laugh, “Didn't know you fucker even _had_ sympathy.”

He held his ground, shifting and shimmying slightly ever so often to get closer. He was close, but not close enough. “Tell me then, who's the damn bastard? Or, bastards. Frankly I could care less, but~--...” A mocking smirk replaced the maniacal grin, he was teasing the other, he was testing the other.

“Actually-- don't tell me, is it Bad? or your dear _'brother'_ Tubbo, maybe?” He paced closer, a heavy and massive step as it clattered and stomped against the floor, he raised his fist, readying to strike as the knife subtly protruded between his knuckles~-..

“Maybe, your damned Dream Team?” He stopped, his fist suspended in the air as anticipation slowly diminished in his chest, replaced with irritating anxiety. 

A cruel chuckle was given in return, “The British bastard and that fuckin' arsonist?” Another scoff, another mock. His eyes dragged and glared at the small glint in-between his knuckles, the knife barely apparent but noticeable enough. “No, you can't _possibly_ be trying to stop this for that pyromaniac and that poor excuse of a vice president,-”

“I could kill you right now, Wilbur,” he interrupted with a firm tone that lingered in the air, if the tension in the room wasn't suffocating before, surely it was now. His fist slowly moved downwards until the knife that secured itself in his clenched fist pressed against the other's neck. Wilbur didn't move, didn't even flinch, he didn't need to, _he knew that_.

“You're a smart man, Dream,” Maniacal eyes, an insanity filled glare. “You know as much as I do that you're in no place to negotiate,” Wilbur's unoccupied hand slowly rose to grip Dream's wrist firmly, pressing and moving it suddenly against his neck, droplets of blood coating the very tip, _daring_ him, “I have nothing to lose, Dream,

but you do, don't you?”

A verdant glare that practically pierced through the dirtied porcelain mask, dared to burn through the pair of umber eyes. Both exchanging tensed but unreadable glares. The quiet was loud, as if they shouted, remarked and retorted through their scowling. It struck him-- he really wasn't in a place to negotiate at all, was he?

A brutal and longing strike of mental apprehension. He felt himself stuck in an expansive loop of potential possibilities, his brows furrowing as he continued to ponder--.. continued to think of anything to stop the inevitable, for them to-~.. for him to delay the inevitable.

Silence, tense, spiteful and freezing. Silence, silence as the exchange between two mad men became a Mexican standoff, with-~-.. _with.. what?_

As if every clock's hand suddenly froze, as if hours were deemed redundant and minutes to seconds were nothing but concept, the whole world pausing momentarily as a country's demise promised itself nearer and nearer. It felt like an eternity, though then again he'd much rather delay it indefinitely, a luxury he can't have.

As the guillotine's sharp iron head slowly drew closer to its target's head, he didn't feel remorse, he didn't feel indifference, he felt guilt.

His hands were tense as they held a stationary position, the small knife protruding in his clenched fist teasingly dripping with shimmers of Wilbur's blood at the very end of the blade. Veins throbbed in his occupied hands, almost blue in color as it grew more apparent, like vines that had sheltered itself underneath his skin. He felt tense, he felt fear, he felt anger.

“Let's,-” As the brunet spoke, he dropped the knife and violently grabbed the other's neck, choking him. The action filled and fueled by a restless anxiety and a suppressed anger. Wilbur's throat was pinned against the wall, his fingers not long enough to reach the cobblestone wall behind the man. It was refreshing, refreshing to make this bastard suffer.

Crimson, splatters of blood _squelched_ inside the other's nostrils, almost like an unforgiving wine fountain. As blood slowly ran down to the mad man's chest, which slowly drenched with the grey T-shirt Wilbur wore underneath his brown tattered trench coat, he felt a gratifying sensation. Satisfaction, finally.

Mesmerizing in a way as he was about to take a life, _it's been too long_. Mesmerizing in a way that the last thing this bastard will ever see would be his iconic smiley face mask; A mask that hid a growing grin that mirrored the other's previous maniacal expression, a mask that hid eyes that fell more and more into the depths of insanity, a mask that hid the swelling tears~-.. tears?

A brutal and longing strike of mental apprehension. He lost, hasn't he? As if a pawn had suddenly reached the end of chessboard and turned to queen-hood. Caught up in his own bloodlust, maybe it was to distract himself from them, from their deaths. He wanted to get caught up in his own bloodlust, to reach a high and to forget about what's to come. 

A tear~-.. No, tears that ran across his cheek and dropped down his chin, droplets gathered and fell under heavy bloodshot eyes, as if rain had decided to personify itself in him. Some stuck, stayed and gathered in the secured mask he wore, it felt uncomfortable-~.. but he was too overwhelmed to feel anything. No mask, no façade can hide the raw emotion in his sob.

A cough, phlegm and blood disgustingly mixed together. “~-.. change that,” he spoke with a voice that was raspier than a whore's on a Sunday morning. His hand tensed more and tightened his fist's grip. He wouldn't be surprised if he broke his windpipe-- no, he wanted to break his windpipe.

The brit gave a sly and victorious smile, a smile as deranged and mocking as his own glare. Once hallow, empty and dysphoric was now filled to the brim with uneased, unnerving and enthusiastic conviction. Conviction? Of course, he's avoided and dodged the longing consequences of his actions, it was bound to-~..

“ _No,-_ ”

“Shall _we?_ ”

_Click._

* * *

_**~-..‘h girl it's you that I lie with  
you,  
that I lie with,  
As the atom bomb locks in -~-..**_

* * *

**A tremor**.

“ _You bastar~--..'!_ ” he shouted before the room was enveloped with a loud and drumming _hiss._

His grasp on Wilbur's neck was suddenly loosened, afterwards it was completely lost as he reached to cover his ears, the ringing causing him to cringe as unstable footing became more apparent, the ground-- the room shuffling rhythmically with the igniting sounds of TNT.

As if the room were sentient, sporadic in a way that it continuously shuffled. He trips again as his foothold was taken, his hands momentarily springing downwards to catch his fall. The hiss only grew more louder as the raw sound of detonation filled the room to his own horror.

His palm roughly catches and meets the rough cobblestone floor, his back leaning as he was jolted backwards, causing him to separate from the man he held at choking reach.

Wilbur slowly slid against the rough cobblestone wall, his own hands reaching to cover his own sensitive ears from the blasting chime that had engulfed seemingly everything. Thump. A genuine and twisted remark spilled out of the other's mouth, "Thank you, Dream!" He couldn't hear.

Callous but gloved hands suddenly jolted forward, the other caught off guard as the Brit gripped the SMP Leader's shoulders firmly, fingers digging harshly as it pressed against cloth and skin. He bent his back slightly to gain more reach. He pulled the other in close, their faces only inches away.

Startled and shocked, he could only peer into eyes that've already drowned in madness, “My L'manberg, Dream!” He saw trickles of spit launched from the other's mouths, it slightly covered the small holes of his mask. His ears rung more as Wilbur's ongoing monologue overlapped the hiss of TNT.

“My unfinished symphony, forever unfinished!” He shook the other as his grin grew more, whatever sanity that was left in the man finally diminished, as he accepts the closure and death of his failure. “If I can't have it, no one can!” he continued, his expression gleaming with maniacal pride.

“All thanks to you.”

* * *

_**\--..‘h it's you I watch TV with** _   
_**As the world,--**_

* * *

The wall side that once held the button suddenly exploded, exposing the main area of the festival, a violent wind gusting forward as it breached through the opening. Chairs, tables, crates and people scattered across the scene, it truly felt like an earthquake, the ground shaking as faint explosives were sent off underneath the ground.

The fallen general had the prideful audacity to cock his head. “There's no-- _'Pogtopia won,'_ or _"Manberg won,'_ ” His grip felt like steel as it continued to dig in his shoulders. “I won--.. we won!” he voiced loudly, trying to talk over the deafening explosions that were erupting underneath.

He got a clear view of the outside as Wilbur titled his head mockingly to the side. He could see the tattered red carpet, the now shattered glass that once held decorative waters. He could see Schlatt freeze like the goat he fuckin' is, could see Quackity, Niki and Techno stare wide-eyed as the world continued to rattle. 

It felt odd to see the Blood Good with any other emotion besides bloodlustfulness or lethargy. He could see the two kids that were dragged from war to war hold each other, one scarred and nearing unconsciousness while the other held him for dear life.

Lastly, he could see them-- he doesn't want to, not now.

Sapnap held a betrayed and malice filled glare, _it felt familiar_. He had his arms draped protectively over the brit, wanting- hoping that the netherite armor and his own body would be enough to protect the smaller from what's about to come.

Despite the words that never left the noiret's lips, he could still hear him clearly-- too clearly.

_((“Dream.” He spoke with a somber clarity in his voice, “Why?”))_

He could barely see George under Sapnap's protective grasp, the goggle hung at the brunet's neck, his hair ruffled and disheveled as the brit shook along with the floor-- with the festival and with everyone else.

Just like the arsonist, he could hear the other all too clearly, words not needed as all three held an intimate moment for one last time.

_((“You won't.” The brunet repeated with as much if not more certainty than before.))_

* * *

_“Just kiss me!” The arsonist hurls himself forward as he caught up with the other. The screech rung in the silent fields._

_“Ugh!” George's foothold was taken as he was tackled, “Sapnap--.. stop,” the Brit says as he attempts to shove off the taller._

_“Geooorge!” He wheezes slightly as he joined in the wrestle, “Geoorge..” he repeats fondly after he added his weight to the pile._

_Sapnap chuckles lightly as he was sandwiched between the back of the brit and the front of the SMP leader. “God, Dream get off!”_

_“Oh my god, both of you are stupid.”_

_It takes a few minutes for all three of their laughter to die down, now presented as a reoccurring giggle that rose mostly from either Dream or Sapnap._

_It felt nice, his back was against fresh green grass, the other two laying comfortably, it was refreshing._

_It felt cool, how evening winds slowly brushed across his exposed face, he didn't need to hide it from his two best friends after all._

_It felt warm, how their bodies were practically stacked, Sapnap's leg dangling over his own as George's head rested on his chest._

_Ever the most cynical out of the three, George spoke as their eyes continued to wonder up in the night sky, “You shouldn't have invited Tommy to the SMP.”_

_“I mean, it's been pretty fun lately,--”_

_"More like 's been pretty annoying lately." Sapnap butts in, his sentence now left broken and cut off._

_He lets out a hum, acknowledging both of their remarks, “You have to admit, their little drug van skit was pretty entertaining to watch.”_

_The brunet lets out a sigh, “I mean, I guess,” He could already hear the other roll his eyes. “It's just that-~-... I missed this.”_

_With that, silence made its way in this little discussion, he agrees of course, he hasn't hung out with them in awhile because of the L'manberg shenanigans' that was going on._

_It feels both tense and intimate, their hands inches from touching as their bodies were bundled up like jenga pieces on their 25th round. He points up high, Sapnap flinching slightly as the arm brushes pass him._

_As if drawing on space and the stars itself, he drags his index finger as he mindlessly waves the pointer finger around. “What are you doing?” The noiret lets a bemused chuckle at the other._

_He grins slightly, he always felt calmer with them around, always felt safe. “Drawing,” he says as if it were the most obvious thing in world._

_George chimes, his hands resting on his own chest as he used the other as a makeshift pillow, “That's a bit stupid.”_

_A small wheeze escaped his lungs, a mix between a deflating tire and a boiling tea kettle. “You don't even know what I'm doodling!” he feigns offence._

_“Knowing you, it'd either be a dick or a literal piece of shit.” As the Brit responds, the airy and comforting silence was replaced with wheezing laughter and giddy chuckles, the brunet lets out amused huff._

_“Since when did you become funny,--”_

_“Shut up, Sapnap,”_

_“You don't actually want that do you.~”_

_“You act as if you know what I want.”_

_“Girls, girls, you're both pretty,” he snorts out, the two unintentionally spiting each other-- as usual._

_He receives an elbow to his left side as the arsonist lets out a sound of mixed offense and banterous huff._

_Silence swept the scene like it did so many times before, it was never awkward oddly enough, whether they be star gazing right now, preparing and enchanting new armor or just keeping each other company, whether words were thrown out or not, it was always comforting._

_For the most part._

_It felt like hours passed, it felt like only minutes went by. Sapnap made an effort to start up another discussion but quickly gave up as he read the room, he was a bit disappointed, he didn't like to keep to himself. “I'm not dragging any of you back to the base if you fall asleep,” the noiret jokes as he skids against the grass, now laying straight at Dream's left side._

_George was rather clueless for someone who was mostly the brains of their operations, but he always liked consistency. He shifts and raises his head, leaving the comforting pillow he made Dream to be. He straightens out, laying exactly like Sapnap, now on Dream's right side. “I have the worst sleep schedule here, I'm sure I won't be sleeping anytime soon,” he muses._

_He wasn't that surprised as he felt the craving sensation of sleep tempt him, his eyelids forcing themselves down as he forced them upwards. He attempts to muffle a yawn as his jaw slacks down, his hand raising as he softly bit down on the side, yet fails to muffle it completely._

_He hears shuffling on both his right and left, he felt-- he felt warmer than usual. Arms draped across his torso, he hears- feels breathing to his right, more shuffling to his left as a leg now tangled with his own. “Guys,-” He felt warm. The dim sky hiding the growing red in his cheeks._

_“Shut up.” And he so he did, there's no arguing with George--.. well there was, he just didn't really feel up to it, not when the warm embrace slowly lulled him to a tempting sleep._

_He could get used to this. He doesn't want to let go, not for awhile._

* * *

_**-~-..As the world caves in’.** _

* * *

He doesn't want to let go, not for awhile.

The ground around him erupts, the shaking from before multiplied in magnitude and intensity. The once sturdy cobblestone ceiling horrifically thudded against the walls as it shuffled, the wooden support beams snapping and the opening closing down in front of him,-- ‘ _Not yet, not yet._ ’

He snaps. His focus now disoriented as it settled between the hot timid air that trapped him and the other man inside the bunker. He reached for the knife that was dropped before, the brit still maniacally laughing as he basked in his victory, as he basked in the death of his country-- his failure.

Without a second's hesitation, he brought the knife upwards as he dug it in the side of the other's neck. Wilbur coughs, the world around him quickly drowning into darkness, he feels as if he's been swept in a tsunami, his lungs captivated in crimson waters. He smiled. He smiled as he gave one final victorious remark to the man who's losing it all.

“We-~.. we won.” He coughs, he laughs and mocked for one last time. 

The body slumps against Dream, the iron grip the brit had once had now died with him. He almost forgot that he was in a middle of a nuke wide explosion-- the ground reminded him as it rattled twice as intense, he felt dizzy, he felt the world shift back and forth despite the lack of lights.

He pushes the corpse away as he struggled to view his surroundings, he feels blood collecting, a puddle of red now in darkness as he tries to regain his balance with the rattling ground. The sole of his boots squelched disgustingly as it pressed against fresh blood. He attempts to wriggle out of the collapsing bunker.

It felt claustrophobic, it could barely fit a man now-- let one and a dead body. He shifts, cobblestone and arrays of pebbles and stone tumble down from cracks, he continues to wriggle as the country continued to shuffle, he thought he couldn't breath.

The world around him stops, it felt odd-- he felt no tremors, he took the time to correct his balance as he dug himself out of his stone grave. He sees the exit, the small door with weak wooden rims. ‘ _Did-- did it malfunction?_ ’

He felt a wave of denial and relief as he waited. He waited, waited, waited. Nothing, nothing as he anxiously peered through and reached out for the small shimmers of midnight ligh--

**Boom**. A deafening shockwave puts the previous rattling to shame, the mountain shook as with what he could assume the whole world with. Cries, screams that only lasted for mere seconds were quickly silenced. Midnight light that once drooped in the opening was replaced with a blinding orange.

He collapses, he felt dizzy- nauseatic as the silence that once occupied the air was suddenly replaced with the sounds of agony and explosions. His body slumps unceremoniously against rigid stone walls of the hallway, dropping down as he listened in on the continuous deafening sounds from outside.

Everything was practically engulfed in an extreme inferno. The skies, despite showing a cool hued blue, was now tainted with a stern orange that screamed violently, the night sky was warm-- too warm, it was hot, he felt like a live person stuck in an unforgiving oven, slowly baking him from the outside.

Despite everything, he felt cold.

He felt cold without the warm breathing that felt too close, felt too intimate. He felt cold as he began to yearn for gentle arms to spoon accordingly, for the stern pressure that wrapped around from his back and the small body he had usually hugged on his front, he felt cold without them, too cold.

He wanted to sleep, wanted to sleep with them-- but he couldn't. He felt a wracking sob escape the pits of his being, he felt guilty tears collecting in closed eyes, he felt it stream in an agonizing pace. He yearned for warmth, yearned for them.

But he wanted to sleep so badly, wanted to wake up and find to find himself in their bed, to find himself in the middle of a drooling Texan and a soft Brit. He wanted to sleep, to sleep and wake up as if everything that had happened today was a just nightmare, to be comforted, to be loved--..

He settles for sleep for now, he settles down as he gives in to slumber. He settles down as he pushes down his guilt.

* * *

**_~--..‘ou put your final suit on,  
I paint my fingernails--.._ **

* * *

_The sky dim as void swept the high atmosphere, thunderous and violent waves of droplets trickle rhythmically against closed doors and shielded windows. The tower was lit with its usual torches, fire flickers and responds against the heavy rain that deafen everything._

_Chilling, that's all he could describe the place. It was unusual, really, unusual in how he's isolated himself in the top of the tower, despite the raging winds and violent storm that had swept up the SMP, he stood in spited but guilty reasons, like a child unwilling to own up to their mistake._

_He lets out a heavy sigh, hot breath contrasting with the cold atmosphere. “I'm alright,” he mused to himself, he lied to himself. “I'm fine,” he said to himself, he tries to convince himself._

_Trickles of sweat and rain race down behind the porcelain mask. He was soaked from head to toe, not bothering to cover up and use the poncho's hood. He had more important things to scowl on anyways._

_He wanted to stand in firm indifference, but he couldn't. He couldn't as he was continuously swayed from side to side by northern and southern winds. He couldn't as he glowered, struggled and dwelled on the argument that had erupted--~.. a minute ago? an hour ago? He couldn't tell, he doesn't want to, frankly._

_The small voice in the very far end of his head whispered soft malice, tempting and provoking malice. ‘They'll leave you,’ it echoed slightly, ‘look what you've done.’_

_“They won't,” he answers and responds to it--~.. himself._

_He didn't hear it, not against the soaking waters that poured without remorse. It was too loud for his liking, but he'd rather be surrounded with the skies' tears than his own, let alone the other two's._

_He'd rather be surrounded with the skies' violent cries than the argumental screams and curses that had slipped past their lips._

_“Dream,” A stern voice called from behind, it lacked its usual bright tone, he hated it._

_He flinches at his own name, he felt the deafening rain slowly be degraded to simple white noise, he could hear the small steps behind him despite the thundering and pouring. It was odd, it was-- oddly calming to a degree._

_“Dream.” It called out again, it sounded closer than before-- he felt the shiver and exhaust of nervous breathing near his back. He wasn't good when it came to apologies or arguments in general, the other two knew that, but it always pained him to be the one to be approached instead of the other way around._

_“I know,” he blurts out with an unusual softened tone, it was almost near a whisper, it was raspy and almost pathetic. Pathetic._

_He feels pressure on his left hand as it was grabbed, he feels a pulse rhythmically beat against his own hands. It was loud and fast, nervous and anxious, he didn't like that. “Do you?” the arsonist responds after a second's passing._

_“-~... Where's George?” he whispers and avoids the other's question, he really wasn't sure how to answer the arsonist's first question. He turns his head, rain uncomfortably seeping through the small openings of the mask that emerged as he shifted his neck._

_Greeted with bloodshot eyes that almost completely blends in with the noiret's umber irises, the bandana drooped down to his neck as his hair was left exposed in the rain, left to soak and stick to his forehead. His lips subtly quivered, he looked disheveled._

_He isn't in the position to judge, was he?_

_A hand suddenly rose to clutch the bottom of the mask he wore, he lets it. It slowly shuffled and pulled down the porcelain until the straps hung at the back of his neck. The arsonist slightly tilted his head upwards to meet the glassy eyes of the blond._

_“He didn't mean it, you know?” He speaks sympathetically as he reassuringly squeezed down on the hand he still held. His other hand had left the mask and gently caressed the left cheek of Dream, he melts into the touch almost immediately._

_He responds with a subtle nod, he can't bring himself to speak, can't bring himself to talk without the risk of completely breaking down in front of one of his best friends. ‘best friends...’_

_There was a small unintentional cough that resonated from the exit of the rooftops. George stood awkwardly, goggles hiding shamed and guilted heterochronic eyes, he felt as if he was intruding in an intimate moment, a moment he wasn't supposed to witness, let alone join in on._

_Dream couldn't repress a small chuckle that stood out like a sore thumb against the somber atmosphere. He tilts his head slightly as he moved into the arsonist's touch even more, said arsonist turning his head to glance at the brit that stood timidly, away from the soaking rain as he stood in cover._

_He feels the warmth slowly drift away from him to his own disappointment, the Texan trudging back to the brit. He makes a gesture for him to come along, he follows without question, he can't bring himself to risk another argument anyways._

_He wasn't good when it came to apologies or arguments in general, the other two knew that, but it always pained him to be the one to be approached instead of the other way around._

* * *

**_~-~...‘h we're going out in style babe,  
And everything's on sal’-~.._ **

* * *

He feels sore, pebbles, stone and dust decorated his recently awoken body, the exit had almost completely collapsed on itself due to the explosion from-- yesterday? He couldn't tell. It was oddly peaceful despite the recent event, rain trickles slowly as it spilled in through the small crevices of the mountain, some from the main and only exit itself.

Eyelids flicker and tempt him to drift back into sleep, he quickly adjusts to what little light still remained in the stone hallway-- what's left of the hallway at least. He props himself using his elbows, his eyes darted towards the small hole made by collapsed cobblestone and ruined support beams; the remnant of the exit door.

He balances himself quickly, his breathing still slightly labored. He feels disgusting, the insides of his mask felt humid but hot, the dry tears that still stick to his cheeks didn't help. He tries to recall-.. as if a foggy haze had took a portion of his consciousness and memory as he woke up. He still feels like he's asleep.

It feels like a hang over, how his forehead throbs as he feels a vein almost pop in that specific area. He trudges towards the small light that shot through the small opening. He's going to have to dig himself out of this place, wasn't he? Yeah-.. yes, he was. He groans as he comes to that conclusion.

It was hard to concentrate, though the small rhythmic drops of rain that tap melodically from outside grounded him slightly. His arms felt sore and fragile, as if any slight force would shatter his bones--.. he was never good with self preservation. 

Without a second's hesitation-- that was a lie, with plenty of hesitation, he grabs and slithers a finger underneath in the cervices' of the bundle of fallen cobblestone. His breath hitches, he begins to scuffle and dig his way out of the makeshift bunker, now made gravestone for the man he had foolishly trusted. 

Speaking of.. He turns his head to face where he came from, he could imagine it. **Thud**. The blood pouring on the floor as lifeless eyes accompanied the now undying grin the dead man wore, ironic. He begins to recollect, memories and brief call backs slowly seeping into his mental space.

**Thud**. He's sure he's gone through this before, the churning in his stomach, the unruly striking in his gut.

“Oh.”

Another withdrawal and sudden strike of realization-- It felt like he's went through this before. Epiphany. Epiphany is a funny feeling, it could be your first wave, second or third wave of realization, but it never fails to make you crumble.

His breath shakes as he continues to carry pieces and chunks of cobble to make way for his exit. His grip tightens and loosens, his eyes barely concentrated as he moves back and forth. Grab, bring, settle, return. It was a repetitive task, but with repetition comes familiarity. 

Familiarity. A luxury he's taken for granted.

* * *

The sole of his boots trudges over muddy plains as he exited from the mountain. He was exhausted already, the ligaments and tendons of his upper limbs strained after what felt like an hour's work. He walks, walks and walks as he began to view what's left of Manberg.

It was unnerving.

There was no massive circular crater, no symmetrical man made massive dent in the earth, all the TNT had been placed on certain weak spots, it relied on the ground and buildings collapsing itself to create major damage. The podium that once hung from the cliffside now was found at the bottom, a quarter submerged in the waters below as almost half was completely missing.

The majestic crimson carpet that used to lead to the waters was completely missing, and so did chunks upon chunks of land. The whole land was destroyed unevenly, as if a hoard of super-charged Creepers had suddenly kamikazed in random places within Manberg.

Support beams, tall sturdy buildings, the marketplace-- all gone, reduced to soot and crumbled pieces of junk that were either scattered and thrown from the explosion or was completely diminished. The rain barely made a difference as it strode and viewed from high above.

He continues to survey the damage, his feet careful and steady as he took note of potential faulty explosives and small hallow pits that went unseen by his own eyes. The rain picks up its pace, mournful sheds of tears were slowly being replaced by a raging storm that dares sweep the SMP.

Despite it all, it was oddly calming. The world covered the day in a blanket of grey, the rain pouring generously as it slowly extinguished the remaining flames that've scattered across Manberg, the ashes and smoke still remained. How many people have truly died-~... He isn't in the right headspace to think, not for awhile as well.

Dust with smoke, still fresh oddly enough. The aroma of the assumed deceased overpowered by ashes, soot, and remnants of explosives. Once brilliant green eyes were now dull, duller than the clouds that mock the day's event, that mock the dead that arrived in it.

Everything was tainted with somber and mocking hues of grey and blue, melancholic and saddening in multiple ways than one. He continues to saunter, he's at a lost as he began to ponder-- ‘ _Where to go now? back to the base-~-..? to meet up with George and S--~... Ah, ah.._ ’

His hands grow shaky as he cautiously walked through what he now deems the valley of the dead. It was fitting, or was it?

‘ _This isn't even a valley,_ ’

‘ _Who cares, it sounds cool._ ’

‘ _That's what you're thinking?_ ’

A phantom's whisper crept in his ear, a conversation erupting at his very back. He turns immediately, his feet pivoting and digging further in mud as his boots grow dirtier with wet grime. He held his hands near his chest, a violent and accusatory clenched fist was already in the motion of delivering a right hook.

His fist was sent forward, his torso moving and rotating with the strike as he leaned in all his weight. His foothold became more firm and planted as his boots was sunken in wet mud. He continued to lean into his strike, causing his right foot to lift as his fist was in the motion of striking.

He misses--.. He strikes the air as his fist barrels towards nothing but a few falling droplets. His footing loosened as it continued to pivot into the ground, it leaned and caused him to lose a portion of his balance. He immediately sets his right foot to skid against mud to balance himself, digging in.

An anxious and exhausted gasp escaped his lips. He lifts his head as he caught himself from falling, snapping and turning from side to side as he attempted to find the culprit who managed to survive the explosion. He groans, he keeps looking-.. keeps glaring at particularly nothing at all.

There was no one there.

There's only him in a country wide grave.

Alert and vigilant as he stared at nothing, a glare given to no one and nothing. It felt foolish, the world continuing to mock him--.. but it sounded familiar, too familiar. Panic raises from his chest and takes control of his body, his legs moving backwards cautiously, unaware of his surroundings as he sauntered back, “Who's there!” He isn't going to take any chances.

Silence. He was met with eerie silence that was accompanied with a growing downpour, the rain causing dirt to soften, the heavy clouds still casting the world in a dim early darkness in mid-day. It was a different type of atmosphere now, it wasn't melancholic--.. it was haunting in way, his concern rising with reason.

His fists slowly lowered, the glare reduced to a paranoid gaze as he turns to walk in the opposite direction. It still felt familiar-~-... sounded familiar. The rain grew restless, the gentle downpour was now an entire cloudburst. It dares to drown whatever's left.

‘ _You know who we are._ ’

‘ _How could you, Dream._ ’

“No,--” He turns again and was met with nothing. He was sure of it-~.. He heard them, they were still here, they were lingering somewhere but out of his sight or grasp. “Where are you!” he shouts, his body rotating in ever direction as he sends glances, trying to find--...

‘ _You left us, Dream._ ’

‘ _Why, Dream?_ ’

“I-I didn't-~.. You're-- both of you are still alive! you're here somewhere, I kno--..” Thunder crackles barely a feet away from him, the earth responds mockingly at the hallucinogenic man, the SMP leader responding to either himself, true-phantoms or to nothing itself.

Sweat began to drip as rapidly as the rain, his breathing quickening as heavy winds began to whistle through and break the peaceful silence. The strike left the ground at his front marked and darkened, his eyes sparing a glance before his jaw clenches in worry. Insanity began to drip as rapidly as the rain.

They're here-- or where they? No, no they were. He feels the world spin around him as he's presented with new hope, a faulty and foolish man's hope. He feels his head tangle and twist, he can't think clearly-- then again, he hasn't been able to for awhile now. He turns again, he turns once more, looking.

He paces backwards, he paces forward, he doesn't know where they were-~.. where he was, where he wanted to be. He feels his balance taken as he slips on mud, he feels like he's falling-- and well, he is. His back meets the ground roughly, air was forcefully taken from his lungs as his lips departed to let out a pained noise.

He quivers. He's forced to look up at nothing-- he's been doing that a lot recently, hasn't he? He's forced to look up at nothing but the high grey clouds, it continued to pour, paying no mind to the man who's slowly breaking underneath them. Droplets slid on the porcelain mask, some squeezed between small light cracks that weren't deep enough to expose any skin.

“I'll save you! I'll-~-.. I'll save both of you!” He unknowingly gives out a hollow promise as his shouts were sent up high, it lingered in the air. He convinces himself--.. he lies to himself, they were alive, they were waiting-~.. trapped underneath a building-... somewhere, somewhere here-..

‘ _Will you?_ ' -~- ' _Did you?_ ’

‘ _When?_ ' -~- ' _Where?_ ’

‘ _You can't._ ' -~- ' _You didn't._ ’

“I will!” he shouts again, the desperate voice lingers in the air as it accompanies with the violent dropping of rain and consistent gusts of gale that swayed and juggled the small clutters and remnants of the country. He feels uneased, feels trapped, cold and slowly drowning with-~.. the rain? guilt--..? He doesn't know.

His torso rose as he props himself using his elbows, it skids and slides slightly on slippery mud before it dug and planted itself securely. _He feels the world spin around him as he's presented with new hope, a faulty and foolish man's hope_. He leaned forward before his hands pressed against mud, he uses it for leverage as his feet rose--.. he hauls himself and stands anxiously.

“I-I can! I can't lose both of you-- please, George!” His body rotates again, he pleads again as he tries-- desperately tries to search for any semblance of the Brit and Texan. “S-Sapnap!” He cries out again, his throat beginning to strain from shout after shout. 

His throat ached, but he can't stop-~-.. they were so close, nearly reachable, he could practically hear them at his back. “George!” he shouts again, almost viciously, “Sapnap!” He turns his head, his whole body panicky as it anticipated for something, someone--.. anything. 

Whether it was the scattered particles of debris that managed to tickle his irises, or the overwhelming anger and denial that prickle his every thought, which had caused the glassy appearances of his eyes underneath the mask? He couldn't be bothered to know, couldn't be bothered to notice. He felt vulnerable, too vulnerable.

The skies kept responding with somber tears and angry gusts, droplets now raging and amassing as seconds turned to what felt like long hours. Surely--.. surely, they were here. He heard their voices so clearly, they sounded so close but so far. Yet he couldn't feel the their breathing-~.. couldn't feel the warmth they used to give.

* * *

_**-~-..‘We creep up on extinction,** _   
_**I pull your arms right in~-..** _

* * *

**Crack**.

His head drops down as his feet accidently steps on a light object, it emits a metallic noise as it was squished between leather footwear and the muddy grounds. He backtracks and lifts his boot, his eyes widening as a guilted horror seeped into his being. He stares at it, he stares for what could be a minute to tens of minutes.

A flint and steel, marked with a small fire brand on the steel-striker.

He knew who this belonged to.

* * *

_**~-~..I weep and say goodnight love,** _   
_**While my organs pack it n’~--..** _

* * *

He thought he couldn't dispose any more tears, he thought he couldn't move as the rain poured without any more remorse. He had his knees dug deep in mud, his head still looming as his neck began to ache. How much time has passed-~..? a few minutes, an hour? He can't keep track.

The flint and steel was carefully cradled between shaky hands, a pool of water made itself inside a quivering hold. The steel-striker had lost its metallic grey shine and was covered in wet grime. “Please, please, please,” It was barely above a whisper, words that can't even be heard by himself.

He swore he could feel a frigid and cold hand rest against his right shoulder, he swore he could hear taunting whispers that crept in his ear-- ‘ _Please?_ ’ -~- ‘ _Please what, Dream?_ ’ --Eyes swelled and watered, yet they still focused on the broken flint and steel.

Streams of tears now freely flowed fluidly under the mask, softly yet violently racing down his cheeks and collected in the bottom of the porcelain. He felt trap, warm and uncomfortable. Animalistic in a way as a hands suddenly darted upwards, grabbing and viciously clawing at the mask.

He drops the flint and steel in the process. He was sobbing, he felt disgusting and an utter mess. His hands began to redden as it continued to scratch at the once smooth mask. By sheer luck, the strap's strong hold slipped, the leather settling at the back of his neck.

Heavy breaths were exhausted, his lips parting as hasty lungs expanded and contracted. It felt better, slightly better. He slowly rose his head, green orbs staring mindlessly at falling and raging rain, droplets pouring without remorse as it darted and shot at his face. 

‘ _What are you doing?_ ’

‘ _Find us, Dream._ ’

‘ _You owe us that much, don't you?_ ’

They felt so close, voices that dwindled and settled on his shoulders, whispering sweet malice, tempting venom and belittling commands. ‘ _Find us._ ’ Hands violently rose and grabbed at the strands of hair, pulling and seizing, controlling his head as he continued to break in the midst of a storm.

Firm holds only continued to drive him further into the depths of insanity. “I will!” he proclaimed, he shouts at nothing but the corpses that hid under structures. “I will,- I will!” he repeats again and again. He's responded with nothing.

The quiet, the silence was never as uncomfortable and unnerving as now, the silence that he had felt so many times before, felt so much more restricting-- so much more, maddening. His head jolts down at the dropped flint and steel, eyes staring for what felt like a full minute.

His lips part again as he whispers a question, “--.. Where are you,~”

_Silence,_

“-.. Where are you.”

_Silence,_

“Where are you!”

The silence that he had felt so many times before, felt so much more restricting-- so much more, maddening. The world continued on either way, the skies' tantrum slowly dying down. The blanket of grey slowly drifted and made way for blinding lights.

The winds only swayed the grass, daring not to challenge and juggle the massive clutters of structure like it did during the raging storm's time. It was calm, it was silent. Bloodshot eyes that once held an intensity in their glares finally softened, slow degrading of exhaustion causing eyelids to settle slowly.

He lets out an anxious and breathy exhale, his upper limbs that seized and pulled at blond locks slowly fell and clutched his torso, similar to self-embrace. It was still so cold, the cloudburst that ran rampant above Manberg softened to a light drizzle.

Silence swept the scene like it did so many times before, nothing hearable but the soft yet labored breathing, the small trickles of rain that dart at puddles and the missing voices that he now yearns for.

_Silence,_

“Don't leave me!” he bellows, his torso contorting and leaning forward, his head looming once more. His arms only tightened as eyelids hid bloodshot eyes. His voice was throaty and raspy, the sheer volume of his cry causing a disturbance to the puddle that he peered at.

_Silence._

* * *

**_-~~..‘nd here it is, our final night alive_ **   
**_And as the earth runs to the ground,_ **   
**_Oh girl it's you that I lie with..,~--_ **

* * *

It felt dry. Despite the still damp mud that he trudges and walks on, despite the small occasional droplets that dart and land, it felt so dry. Maybe it was how his throat had practically lost all ability to exhaust words, maybe it was how his cheeks left a sticky texture as his tears dried-~.. he didn't know.

He walks aimlessly against the soft soil, his hands fiddling with the steel-striker he had brought after his recent breakdown. His breathing was shallow and silent, his eyelids drooping slightly as it yearned for him to rest. Green irises continued to look for their corpses, despite the bloodshotness.

He owes them that much, doesn't he?

He stops momentarily, his head dropping as eyes stared at the uneven crater that had gathered fair amount of water due to its depth. He notices, chairs and crates laid floating amidst the murky yet freshly collected rain water, a long tattered crimson fabric floating among the debris. 

A breathy exhale left his lips. He would be lying if he said that the thought of the Blood God finally dying didn't cause him to slightly shake. He hesitates, mauling over his limited options before he presses a foot near the edge of the soil that began to dip in the crater.

He slides cautiously, his heel catching and digging through the uneven curve of the crater as he continued to descend. He lands without much hassle, breaking through the surface tension of the water as both legs were submerged, the small rain-made lake reaching his calves.

Water seeped into leather boots, black leather jeans slightly dampened with it as well. It would've been more uncomfortable if he didn't already soak in the rain for a good few hours. 

A fist clenches tightly on the steel-striker before he decided to keep it in his left pocket, unwilling to lose something so valuable in the midst of clutter, junk and potential dead bodies.

He begins to trudge across and search, water resistance causing him to shimmy slightly with every step to gain more reach. 

Truly, he doesn't really know where to go next as he aimlessly searched, devoid of goals or aspirations, devoid of the warmth he craves but knows he could never have again.

Despite it all, the world continued to spin, it didn't care for the deaths it delivered in the day, didn't care for the mournful shouts that arrive in the night. It didn't care for him.

A bitter chuckle left his lips as he acknowledged his importance.

It's been an hour at least-~-.. maybe two or three? The sun had left the high sky and hid west over mountains, the small shimmers of red and strong orange hues colored the sky in a magnificent manner, no clouds in sight, a far different atmosphere compared to what he woke up to. 

The water was warm, whatever bent and destroyed structure that still loomed higher than the crater below made good enough shade for him to search. He finally comes across a pale hand that protruded against a pile of cobblestone, the water around tinted slightly with fading velvet.

He lets out a shallow exhale, crouching and softly caressing the lifeless hand.

He feels guilt trickle into his conscience. 

“ _'M_ sorry,” A somber and gentle whisper left his lips, he wanted to cry, but he's shed too many tears to do so, been given too much time to be struck. Somber acceptance. 

* * *

_The world spun in his head as barely conscious eyes stared aimlessly at the starless void. His back ached, his spine having met the rough edge of endstone and denting through iron armor. It felt wet._

_Small splodges of burning black took portions of his vision, droopy and weary eyelids flickering up and down. Despite eyes directed at the darkened End's sky, which gave no burning sun or star to illuminate it, he felt as if it'd be better staring at that than growing nothingness._

_His ears rung, it's been doing that for awhile now. He feels his body being hauled and moved, a firm hand placed at his back, feeling the depth of the armor's dent. Another hand plants itself on the torn iron armor at the front of his chest._

_“~-~...'lease. We'-~.. so clos--~.. 'id it.” He could barely see, he could barely hear, he could barely feel._

_“-~.. 'n't los-~-.. 'ream!”_

_Despite it all, he felt warm. As if the softest blankets had suddenly wrapped around him, soft melodies that yearned for him to sleep but begged for him to wake up._

_He feels his mouth being intruded with a glistening-- almost crunchy item, it was forced in his throat with shaky hands that he thought could break off its wrist. It was a little sour, a little bitter, but mostly sweet-- an apple?_

_The feeling of the standard regeneration potion painfully mended his aching body, he always hated using potions, they left a bitter aftertaste and even harsher feeling as a side-effect. The golden apple? It left him wanting to eat more, but the painful restructuring of his body caused him to double think._

_He gasps, whether it was out of pain or regained consciousness, he couldn't care less._

_“Dream!” -~- “Dream!”_

_The sudden twin shouts had been enough for him to snap back into reality, he wasn't staring back at the starless void that Endermen called their home's sky, no, he staring at something so much more breathtaking yet painful._

_Tear tracks remained at their respective cheeks. The lenses on George's goggles held a shattered lense on its left, revealing a bloodshot but still watery eye, his face was accompanied with quivering lips._

_Sapnap wasn't in any batter state. His bandana was nowhere in sight, and the arsonist could care less. His eyes had a slight fury, as if he'd burst out in a tantrum if he had held a dying Dream._

_Before he could process further, he was met and forced into a tight embrace of four arms, two bodies, and the very uncomfortable edges of iron armor._

* * *

_It was odd, he never really payed attention when they stargazed, the abundance of stars that dotted the darkened but blank canvass of earth never held him interested, he always paid more attention to both men that settled beside him._

_Yet now, he couldn't tear his gaze at the endless sky, some may find it eerie-- horrifying even, the concepts of "never ending," "void," "infinite," always made people seem so small in comparison to things. But him? He felt at ease, as if finding solace at how small his importance is._

_How the world doesn't care for him. How he relies and is cared for by people, people he'd give his life to rather than the world he called his home. He felt words tossed around, bickering tuned down to simple white-noise. His head laid comfortably on uncomfortable endstone, his iron armor left and forgotten._

_Slowly, those gentle sounding white-noises settled back in his ear, his attention now back at his two partners. He honestly doesn't know what they were talking about, he heard the words "dairy," "lies," and "disappointment," thrown, and he's decided not to question, it's always best to not question when it came to these two._

_He could see two different pairs of frustrated arms fling and gesture in his peripheral vision, both seemingly competitive and eager to either prove themselves right or humiliate the other-~-.. perhaps both._

_George sounds exhausted, his throat raspy but his breaths relaxed, “-~.. Then just don't trust fuc-.. Damn children stories?”_

_“Dude! You don't understand, George, they said that the whole planet would be--.. You know what? Nevermind.” As if the sudden realization of arguing about a cheese planet was deemed immature had struck him, he stopped._

_“God-- Sapnap, what is wrong with you?” He wheezes lightly at the texan, his lungs physically straining with every hefty yet wholehearted laugh._

_He was told that his laugh was contagious, he loved knowing the power he held. A minute passed and yet he still found himself wheezing, “-~.. Cheeze!?” --.. Another pause, another sound of deflating tires._

_It wasn't long before the two joined in on him, the "joke" all in itself wasn't that funny, but Dream's genuine laughter? It was enough for George's growing giggles and Sapnap's lighthearted chuckles._

_Silence swept the scene like it did so many times before, it was never awkward oddly enough, whether they be star gazing right now, preparing and enchanting new armor or just keeping each other company, whether words were thrown out or not, it was always comforting._

_“Why are we star gazing at-- nothing, again?” The Brit broke the silence, his head shifting and still trying to find a comfortable headrest._

_Sapnap lets out a sigh, tinted with faux disappointment, “Because Dream's dumb ass decided to stay paralyzed in the end of all places,”_

_He wheezes again, “Blame the Dragon! 'Sides, it was either you two carry me back to the portal, or we rest.”_

_Seconds passed, the arsonist used the time to fully understand the other's words, “--.. Yeah, we're not dragging you.”_

_“Figures.” He doesn't let another wheeze escape his lips, instead, there laid a fond smile that stared at no one in particular._

_Fragile and newly healed arms rose and rested on his chest, crossing them tightly, a self-embrace. His head shuffled as he started to feel discomfort on the stoney endstone he declared as his momentary pillow._

_Silence gave him solace, gave him the time to remember. One minute, he was bleeding on the ground, having been tossed by the damn Ender dragon herself, and the next? He laid there hearing an argument about "the cheese end," it almost made consider wheezing for a good hour or so._

_They gave him solace, they always have._

_He never liked it when he speaks before he thinks, “You guys won't--..” he reconsiders his words, “I mean, we'll be together for-~.. awhile, right?” He sounded timid, it sounded unusual even to himself._

_He was met with silence, it was an odd type of silence-.. not the comforting one, not the tense or competitive ones during their time playing manhunt-~.. It was, awkward? That's a first, and he decides that he hated the eeriness of the silence._

_He felt small, the lack of reply giving the usually cocky and confident man a surprising amount of anxiety._

_“What about it?” George responded, his breath timid as well, as if he'd notice the sudden spiking emotion he had unknowingly given the other man, as if it seeped into the atmosphere through his words._

_Sapnap on the other hand lets out genuine laughter that roll out of his lips, leaving the two in a mix of second hand embarrassment and intrigue. He stops for only a second, catching his breath._

_“Dude, you sound like you think we're gonna' ditch you--..”_

_The brunet interrupts as he follows suit with his own breathy laughs, the arsonist picking up his pace as he joined in with the other, leaving his sentence unfinished._

_He suddenly felt--.. dumb, of course they wouldn't, of course they wouldn't even consider. They were the Dream Team-- a name that took time for it to grow on George. He finds solace again, finds solace knowing where they'd be forever. With him._

_He lets himself laugh with the other two._

* * *

**_-~-..‘s the atom bomb locks in,_ **   
**_Oh it's you I watch TV with,_ **   
**_As the world, as the world caves~~-..._ **

* * *

The world spun in his head as barely conscious eyes stared aimlessly at the starless night. His back ached despite his spine resting on soft mushy soil, despite how he laid comfortably against mud. It felt dry.

He had taken the time to dig up the other two's corpses, dragging them with careful yet shaky hands, they were already in such horrid states anyways.

George laid on his right, a limp hand resting on his chest as his goggles were lost in the rubble, his eyes were beautiful, they always were, but it lacked the glow it had, lacked the hidden sympathy that was reserved and saved for only him and the arsonist.

He looked peaceful yet saddened, as if he used what little time he had and murmured sweet nothing to the other, savoring the little time they had and giving into desires, granting portions of them with melancholic ecstasy. 

Sapnap laid on his left, both arms laid straight as an uncurled fist was given the steel-striker he had kept. The noiret never lost his flint and steel, not when since they were twelve, he always joked about how it'll be a family heirloom in the future, how he flexes it without a care for criticism. 

He looked peaceful yet maddened, as if he wanted to curse out the world with profanities, wanted to mock and taunt whatever god that decided to grant that day the deaths it'll have. Yet he couldn't, not anymore.

He'd be crying a river by now, but tears that were meant for this very moment were already swept away with the rain, tears that were meant for them were stolen.

Just like how the world stole them from him.

An enderchest was only a few feet away, he had placed it to retrieve an item, an item that he never found himself able to use against others--.. it was too cruel, even for him.

He had decided to use it on himself.

It took plenty of consideration, but he's come to the conclusion that--.. he had nothing to live for now, he lived for them and they cherished him for it, they loved him for it.

He'd rather die than live in a world without them.

He props himself with both arms, one raising and revealing a bottle, a green swirling liquid that danced in the transparent container.

Sweet yet bitter poison. George always liked giving potions taste, he never questioned it.

His eyes were mesmerized slightly, green meets green, a hunter watching a self-made trap as he slowly walks towards it.

He downs it completely, like whiskey or any other alcoholic beverage.

They were the Dream Team-- a name that took time for it to grow on George. He finds solace again, finds solace knowing where he'd be forever. With them.

He lays again on the ground, the potions effect surprisingly-~-... subtle. It didn't hurt, he felt nauseous, yes, but not to the point of vomiting.

Sweet yet bitter poison. It's exactly what it is, the standard potion's taste, whether it be healing, weakness or leaping, it was always acidic. He never liked it, but this? It tasted wonderful.

He wonders if it's because of the taste itself, or the results he expects. He wonders if there's truly an afterlife, if there's a god that judges your true fate.

He was always agnostic, he never liked choosing and deciding without having utmost certainty first. Besides, he didn't give himself enough time to wonder more.

All he knew is that he'll be with them soon, they'll be with him soon.

His body is cold.

There lays three men in the middle of a graveyard and the destruction of a country, there lays a man who was promised a kingdom, subjects and home, there lays a man who was promised adventure, thrill and friends, and there lays a man who wanted to grant them their wishes, wanted so badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> **_~-‘s it's you I welcome death with_ **  
>  **_As the world, as the world caves ‘n~-.._ **
> 
> _**-~-...As the world caves in.** _
> 
> * * *

**Author's Note:**

> * * *
> 
> **_~-'s it's you I welcome death with_ **  
>  **_As the world, as the world caves 'n~-.._ **
> 
> **_-~'As the World Caves In.._ **
> 
> * * *


End file.
